


You Took It And Ran

by Juliet Dawson (JulietDawson)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Cheating, Domestic Fluff, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Grieving John, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Irene Adler Ships Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson-centric, M/M, Married Mary Morstan/John Watson, Mary Lives, Minor Mary Morstan/John Watson, Non-Explicit Sex, Pining John, Pining Sherlock, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Reichenbach, Suicide Attempt, slightly OOC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-30
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2019-02-23 23:26:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13200828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JulietDawson/pseuds/Juliet%20Dawson
Summary: What would have happened if Sherlock hadn't come back in time?John finds himself down the path he'd never thought he'd venture. A budding alcoholic, with a failing marriage and a beautiful daughter, John is unsatisfied with the life he lives three years after The Fall.Then Sherlock appears, and John is forced to face the truth about himself and his feelings for the detective.Will he give in, and give it all up for a happy ending with Sherlock?Or will he take what he wants, and run?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, these are very short chapters, I apologize in advance. I'm gradually working on writing again, so please bear with me!

John Watson sighed as he walked into the door of his home he shared with his wife, Mary, and their daughter, Rosie.

 

It had been a horrible day, and with Mary and Rosie on holiday with John's parents, John found his mood to be worsened by the fact he was alone.

 

_‘Alone is what I have, alone is what protects me.’_

 

John shook his head, trying to clear the familiar baritone from his mind.

 

_He's gone, John. He's gone. He's not coming back. Its been three years._

 

John slid out of his coat, hanging it on the coat rack, and made his way to the kitchen, hoping to drink himself into oblivion.

 

_Tonight is a bad night._

 

And indeed, it was, because John woke where he always ended up after getting blackout drunk: a semi dark bedroom with a splitting headache.

 

He struggled as he pushed himself off the floor, falling a few times and cursing when he fell into  the spilled whiskey all over the bedroom carpet.

 

“Fuck.” He got up and stumbled into the bathroom, searching for a flannel to mop at the mess with.

 

As he came back out, he saw a flash of black disappear into the hallway, and his entire body tensed, ready to fight at a moments notice.

 

Forgetting the mess on the floor, John hastily but quietly made for the bedside table, opening the drawer and pulling out his gun, taking the safety off.

 

He'd never kept it on when he lived with...Sherlock, but with Rosie around, he had to take precautions.

 

John crept quietly towards the bedroom door, opening it slightly, and cringing when it creaked. Whoever was in the house surely knew by now that John was aware he wasn't alone.

 

_‘Alone.’_

 

_Shut up Sherlock._

 

Shaking his head, he tiptoed into the hallway, the only illumination guiding his way being the moonlight pouring through the window. He kept walking silently until he saw a shadow flit across the hallway in the moonlight.

 

John took aim and fired once, watching as the bullet hit the window, glass shattering everywhere.

 

“Come out! I know you're in here! I'm a trained army doctor and I will not hesitate to shoot you, and I'm guaranteed not to miss!” John yelled, his finger trembling on the trigger.

 

The hallway light flickered on, and a low voice spoke, shaking John to his very core.

 

“With that aim, you wouldn't even be able graze my coat.” A tangled mess of black hair appeared from around the corner, and John's breath hitched, and he had wished it had just been an intruder, maybe even a dream, and not--

 

“Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock walked slowly out into the middle of the hallway, a meek smile on his face.

 

“Hello John.”

 

John fell to the floor, the gun dropping with a dull thud as well. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He didn't dare to look at Sherlock, knowing he would either pass out or be tempted to kill him.

 

His Sherlock was here.

 

Here, alive, in the flesh, and ever so beautiful.

 

______________________

 

“You were gone, Sherlock. For ages. You were gone and I… I couldn't be alone.”

 

Sherlock Holmes stared at John Watson, searching. Searching for something; truth, lies, trust? He couldn't tell anymore.

 

The picture of John and his little family glared at him from the mantlepiece, mocking, as if Sherlock had never existed in John's life.

 

The John he knew three years ago was gone, replaced by a solemn, ragged suburbanite with alcohol and marital problems; much unlike the John he knew. The bags under his eyes, the slight tremble to his hands, the stench of whiskey, and the unbearable dread in his eyes.

 

His John was gone.

 

“You _didn't_ want to be alone.” Sherlock broke contact with John’s eyes, focusing instead on the tea cup he held in his hand. “ _Couldn't_ implies that it was never an option.”

 

Quick deduction: antique, used not very often, porcelain, gifted to Mar- _her,_ by a great au-

 

John paused, sighing as he ran a shaking hand through his styled hair. “Unlike you, alone wasn't what I had; alone didn't protect me.”

 

Sherlock’s head snapped up, a wave of hurt washing over his body.

 

Only John could make him hurt.

 

“Alone… I didn't want you to be. I wanted-- you have to believe I wanted nothing more than to be here, with you.” Sherlock set his cup down, and extended a hand, placing it on John's arm, closing the distance between them.

 

“If I could have done it differently, I would have. I would have stayed. I would have… I would have been truthful with you, John. About everything. About me. About Moriarty. About… about my feelings for you.”

 

John began shaking, yanking his arm out of Sherlock’s grasp, and stood up abruptly.

 

“You-- you don't get to say that. No. No,” John began pacing, avoiding Sherlock's berth entirely. “Don't… don't do that. I loved you, Sherlock.”

 

John strode over to the mantlepiece, grabbing a trinket and throwing it across the room.

 

“I LOVED YOU.”

 

Sherlock flinched as it broke behind him, knowing full well he'd done it. “John, please, you have to understa--”

 

“Understand what, Sherlock? That I spent two years wishing you weren't dead, wishing it had been me too? Or that every waking moment I had,” John's voice broke, “was spent thinking about us? What could've been?” John began to cry, and Sherlock knew, because his John was shaking, covering his face.

 

“Do you not realize what you've done? Do you not realize the pain you're putting me through now? Do you see, Sherlock, what you're doing to my happy, little life?!”

 

Sherlock kept his mouth closed, knowing anything he said to call out John's lie about his “happy, little life” would only make the situation worse.

 

“I loved you, Sherlock. Hell, I still do.” John whispered, tears streaming down his face. “You gave me everything I wanted, needed. And then you took it.” John sniffed, walking away from Sherlock.

  
“You took it and ran.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm adding on some more, simply because I cannot deal with cliffhangers myself.

Sherlock trudged into 221B, fighting to hold back tears that threatened to burst from his eyes. It was safe to say that his encounter with John had been tumultuous at best, considering that at the end of their conversation they couldn't bear to look at each other; not out of anger, but out of indecision.

 

_ ‘Sherlock stood up and walked to where John stood with his face covered, shielding Sherlock from his weakest side.  _

 

_ Sherlock could feel wetness falling down his own face, silent tears leaking as he watched the man he loved shatter like the glass of the hallway window. _

 

_ “John….” Sherlock began, but stopped when he realized that no words could fix his John, not this time.  _

 

_ So he settled for wrapping one arm around John’s torso, and one that rested on the nape of his neck, his heart breaking as John slightly flinched away from the contact, but didn't move completely away from Sherlock's comforting touch. _

 

_ “I love you.” Sherlock muttered in his deep voice, hoping, wishing it would bring John back to him. _

 

_ John's hand fell away from his face as he slowly looked up at Sherlock, his eyes dull and red. He stepped away from the dark haired man and faced the mantlepiece, refusing to look at the man for fear he'd let the same words slip from his lips: _

 

_ I love you too.’ _

  
  


Sherlock sighed as he leaned against the hallway wall, more or less in the same spot he and John had paused to catch their breath in on that first night. He touched the wallpaper solemnly, dragging his long, elegant fingers across the rough finish, a sad smile on his face.

 

The sudden patter of feet brought him out of his reverie, and he braced himself for the scream that was sure to come.

 

Not but a split second later, the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat flew open, and a shrill scream pierced the night air, followed by a faint thud.

 

Sherlock grinned at Mrs. Hudson's reaction, flying to her side and hoisting her up, carrying her back into her flat.

  
  


_________________

 

John watched the last of his patients leave the clinic, and sighed as he shrugged on his coat, waving a slight goodbye to Sarah as he left too.

 

John really didn't want to go home just yet, not to the empty house. Rosie and Mary wouldn't be back for another week and it would only serve to worsen the already sour mood he was in, no thanks to Sherlock making a reappearance in John's life. 

 

Oh Jesus, what about Sherlock? John had completely ignored him in the moments after the detective had muttered those three fatal words. John could remember the stinging silence, knowing he'd hurt the detective by not acknowledging him.

 

It's not that John didn't love him, because he bloody well did. He always had, right after that first night he moved into Baker Street.

 

But John was scared. Scared of how much he loved Sherlock, and a bittersweet feeling nagged at him; he knew nothing would come of it, simply because John was taken forever. 

 

Even in the pursuit of love, John couldn't bear to break up a child's home, no matter how much it might benefit them. Rosie was innocent in this matter, and it would pain him to even consider ruining what she perceived to be home. Even if he and Mary no longer really loved each other.

 

But that was beside the point. As far as John could see, he was left with two choices: go home and drink himself into a coma, or run to Baker Street and try to fix things with Sherlock, and hope that everything falls into place as it should.

  
John thought that maybe three days had been enough radio silence, and decided to make his way back to his true home: 221B Baker Street.


	3. Chapter 3

“Mrs. Hudson, I do believe we have a visitor.”

 

Sherlock stepped away from the window and glanced towards the door, awaiting the familiar military tread on the steps, and with bated breath, waiting for the short, curt knock on the dark wood.

 

Mrs. Hudson got up from her position on John's old chair and shuffled swiftly toward the door, casting a sideways glance at Sherlock. 

 

“Is it--?” Mrs. Hudson mouthed to Sherlock, right hand grasping the doorknob, left hand pointing towards the door.

 

Sherlock nodded and straightened the lapels on his suit, ready for battle. Three years ago, he wouldn't have been as anxious as he was now when it came to speaking with John, but so much had happened since then, and Sherlock really didn't know how to deal with this sort of thing. 

 

_ ‘Sentiment, brother mine. I knew it would always catch you in the end.’ _

 

_ Shut up, Mycroft. _

 

The knock came, and Mrs. Hudson swiftly opened the door, a knowing smile plastered on her face. 

 

“Oh John! How lovely, dear!” Mrs. Hudson hugged the short man quite tightly for a woman of her age, not letting go until Sherlock cleared his throat.

 

John reluctantly let go of the landlady, stepping back a bit and looking at the floor. “Right.” He briefly looked up and caught Sherlock's eyes, his mouth setting into a tight, small frown.

 

Mrs. Hudson's smile faded a bit, but she nodded in understanding. “Right, I'll leave you boys be to deal with this… proper.” And with that she hurriedly left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.

 

John and Sherlock stared each other down for a few minutes, before Sherlock sat down at his chair.

 

“I’d ask if you'd like tea, but I think the shot of whiskey you had on the way here sufficed enough to ease your nervousness, John.”

 

John laughed bitterly, still not moving from his position at the doorway, his hands clenching and unclenching. “Of course you would know. The great Sherlock Holmes never misses a thing, does he?”

 

Sherlock smiled sadly, knowing John didn't mean to spit his venom so quickly. He was understandably upset, and after the events that had transpired two nights ago, Sherlock could not hold it against him.

 

He deserved every jab John threw at him.

 

“John, about that night--”

 

“Please.” John interrupted, his body shaking slightly. Whether it was from the shot of whiskey he had or from boiling rage and anger and hurt, he didn't know. “I think it would be best to forget that...entire  _ thing _ .”

 

_ ‘Thing. Not eye opening revelation, or a moment of tenderness. A thing, reduced to nothing more than a trivial speck in the grand scheme of things. Maybe John really doesn't want you, Sherlock. _

 

_ ….Poor, poor Sherlock. I really did burn you, didnt I?’  _

 

Sherlock pushed the ominous voice of Moriarty out of his mind, a small grimace replacing the previously smooth expression on his face. 

 

“And I suppose you've come here to tell me to stay away, that you have no use for me in your life anymore?” Sherlock said evenly, controlling his voice as to not give himself away.

 

John's face flickered with hurt, but he composed himself quickly; walking slowly over to his old chair and sitting down, leaning forward onto the tops of his knees. 

 

“No, actually. I….” John trailed off, his breath quickening. “I dont know exactly why I am here. I guess it was a better alternative to going home and drinking myself to death over you.” John chuckled dryly, running his hand through his hair, messing it a little. “Even if it meant afterwards I'd go home and drink anyway.”

 

Sherlock scoffed lightly, looking down at his lap. It hurt to look at John in this state. “So I presume that Rosie and… Mary aren't back from holiday just yet?”

 

John shook his head, and wrung his hands. “No.” He had caught the hesitation in Sherlock's voice when he mentioned Mary by name, but didn't say anything. 

 

“So am I just filler in your boring, ordinary life?” Sherlock countered, watching as John's temple twitched, his hand clenched tightly. He knew what to say to set John off. He needed it, he needed John angry at him.

 

It would make it so much easier.

 

But John knew, he knew what Sherlock was doing. And he wasn't having it. His heart broke at the mere idea of Sherlock pushing him away, even if it was for the best.

 

“No. You've never been filler or an afterthought, Sherlock. You've always been there, at the forefront of my mind. When I wake up, when I go to sleep, when I'm working, when Rosie was born, when I married… Mary, you were always there. Always.” John got off the chair and knelt down in front of Sherlock, hands on either side of him, staring him down. “This isn't the drink talking, either. All those years, the pain, the longing, all of it. I would go back and live through it all again, if it meant I could spend it with you. Without the fall, without Mary.”

 

Sherlock leaned forward, his face mere inches from John's, so close he could smell the liquor on his breath. “Say it, please,” he pleaded. “Say it.”

 

John swallowed, his eyes darting to Sherlock's full lips. “I can't. I can't actually say it to you.”

 

“Then show me.” 

 

John closed the distance in an instant, mashing his lips against Sherlock's, his body instantly relaxing and his mind going into a frenzy. He kissed Sherlock with the pain, the sorrow, the angst he had harbored for the man since they met.

 

Sherlock kissed back with as much fervor, showing John just how much he longed for him, how much he loved him. In their first kiss, there wasn't tender feelings or jitters. It was pure, unadulterated pain, bursting into a crescendo of unspoken words and heartache.

 

John finally pulled back, breathless and lips red and puffy, his hair mussed from Sherlock's fingers running through it. He sat back and watched as Sherlock's eyes closed, savoring the memory of John,  _ his _ John, finally giving him what he had always craved from the man: intimacy and love. He was lost, lost in his own mind, lost in a sea of euphoria.

 

John almost went in for more, after seeing the blissful look spread on the detectives face (oh how he wanted to make Sherlock completely lose himself, it would be marvelous), but Mary and Rosie pushed themselves to the forefront of his mind, and he snapped himself out of the tender moment, panic and regret setting in.

 

He hurriedly stood up and ran out of the flat, leaving Sherlock alone, with the sweet taste of John on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John's being quite indecisive, isn't he?


	4. Chapter 4

**_What do I do about John Watson? -SH_ **

 

**_Ah Mr. Holmes. Glad to finally hear from you. I'm assuming you're back in London then? -TW_ **

 

**_Yes. I have been for a couple of days. What of it? -SH_ **

 

**_Hm. I don't know. I quite fancy the idea of dinner with you. -TW_ **

 

**_Just teasing. -TW_ **

 

**_Please. You know where my heart lies. -SH_ **

 

**_Unfortunately, I do. Maybe I could help you. -TW_ **

 

**_That was my original reason for texting you. You're smart, you have emotion, do you not? -SH_ **

 

**_Of course. You've proven that, havent you? -TW_ **

 

**_Let’s not play silly games, Irene. How do I win John Watson? -SH_ **

 

**_What have you tried? -TW_ **

 

**_Talking. We kissed, but he left abruptly. He's also married with a child. -SH_ **

 

**_Unhappily married, I might add. -SH_ **

 

**_Oh Sherlock. That's… oh dear. -TW_ **

 

**_Do you really want to break up a home and marriage? Even if it is unhappy? -TW_ **

 

**_Marriage is nothing more than an unnecessary, frivolous means to an end. Nothing changes except for the fact you attend church. -SH_ **

 

**_My my, Mr. Holmes. Quite the bitter one, aren't you? -TW_ **

 

**_I think, in the grand scheme of things, you might want to ease up on the pressure you're putting on him. Did you already drop your ‘I love you’? -TW_ **

 

**_How could you have possibly known that? -SH_ **

 

**_You're incredibly predictable, Sherlock. Or do you not remember Belgium? -TW_ **

 

Sherlock shut his phone off after that, berating himself for being foolish enough to take advice from Irene Adler on John Watson. 

 

_ Silly. Silly, silly Sherlock. You've always been quite dull.  _

 

_ __________________ _

 

_ “Sherlock!” _

 

_ John watched as Sherlock fell from the roof, and for a split second, John could've sworn that Sherlock was flying, not falling to his death.  _

 

_ John ran anyway, ran towards the flying Sherlock to save him, from what, John wasn't sure anymore. _

 

_ A small, tiny voice stopped John in his tracks, and he turned around, only to see the tiny, cherubic face of his Rosie. _

 

_ “Da!” Rosie crawled towards him, her tiny little hands scraping on the wet stone of the street. “Dada!” _

 

_ John looked behind him and saw that instead of flying, Sherlock was falling again, falling straight down towards the unforgiving concrete, and John felt his heart pound as he turned his back toward Rosie, moving forward, hoping to keep Sherlock flying once more away from his doom. _

 

_ Rosie’s shrill cries pierced his ears, and he turned and saw she was no longer an infant, but ten years old. _

 

_ “Dad, you promised. You promised you would stay. Don't leave, Da. Don't leave.”  _

 

_ John's heart split in two as he heard the crack on the pavement behind him, knowing he'd lost Sherlock once again, and he was never coming back. _

 

John woke up covered in sweat, close to tears. The dreams about Sherlock dying had gotten worse since the kiss, and he couldn't get the insurmountable guilt he felt out of his body. He was laden with it, unable to feel anything else but dread. 

 

He got out of bed and went into the bathroom, clutching the countertop with shaking hands. There was no doubt in his mind what the dream meant, and John was scared. Actually scared.

 

On one hand, by choosing Sherlock, he could lose the only good thing to come out of his marriage to Mary, which would be Rosie. But if he didn't choose Sherlock, he'd lose him forever, and not from some faceless villain pulling the strings.

 

No, he would lose Sherlock to Sherlock himself. 

 

It didn't make sense, a world where Sherlock didn't have John, and John without Sherlock as well. They clicked; there was chemistry. One could not exist without the other, without becoming a shell. 

 

But with so many things working against them, how could it ever work? It was problematic, tangled and messy; and John was just as clueless having Sherlock back in his life as he was without him.

 

John sighed, turning on the faucet and washing his face with cold water, drying it with a towel. He took a deep breath and went back into the bedroom, sitting down and pulling out his phone.

 

Mary and Rosie would be back within four days. John had four days to decide whether or not he would keep Sherlock private and never be happy again, or tell Mary about his feelings, and risk losing it all.

 

The lesser of two evils, he guessed, would be the best option.


	5. Chapter 5

John knocked yet again on the door to 221B, wishing that maybe Sherlock wouldn't answer, that he could just walk away and go back to his mundane life, where his only pride and joy was Rosie and his only escape was the bottom of the bottle, not the cavern of Sherlock's soft, sweet, and warm mouth.

 

To his disappointment and relief, Sherlock opened the door, and walked away, picking up his violin. John walked nervously to the couch, settling himself in.

 

Sherlock flipped his sheet music, and began playing a mournful, bittersweet melody, not much unlike the one he played when Irene Adler died.

 

John didn't dare say a word until Sherlock set his violin gently down, and walked over to where John sat, and waited patiently.

 

John swallowed, trying to find his words. “The kiss…” He didn't look at Sherlock, only at the hem of his blue dressing gown. 

 

“The kiss was the first time I'd ever felt alive since you were gone.”

 

Sherlock kept his face smooth, his mouth closed. He said nothing, letting John continue.

 

“I think… I don't think I can live without you, Sherlock. I'm useless if you're not by my side. I'm nothing, I'm lost. I'm just John Watson, alcoholic. I'm not John Watson, the man beside Sherlock Holmes, war hero, heart and soul,” John paused, standing up, and looked Sherlock in the eye. He hoped Sherlock would understand what he meant. “I'm biting the bullet right now, because I don't want to lose you.” 

 

_ Translation: I'm not ready to give it all up for you just yet. _

 

Sherlock winced; he understood completely. John wasn't coming to him fully. John wanted him, but wasn't ready to give up on his family. Sherlock wouldn't ask him to, even if he wanted him to. 

 

Because he loved John. He loved him more than he loved himself.

 

“So… I guess what I'm saying Sherlock, is… I'm here. I'm not leaving. But I can't be with you, not just yet,” John's face inched closer up towards Sherlock's, his breath fanning hot and cordial on the taller man's lips, “but I want you all to myself, with no one else meddling, no outside influence. Just us, private, here in our home.”

 

_ ‘Our home.’ _

 

_ He'll never be yours. _

 

_ This is your only chance.  _

 

_ Don't be silly, Sherlock. _

 

_ Turn back now while you can. _

 

“Please,” Sherlock said quietly, ignoring the voices of reason in his head, capturing John's lips with his own, sealing his own fate.

 

John's entire body felt like fire; raw, bright, and hot. Sherlock was touching him, pushing his coat off, ripping open his shirt, buttons flying everywhere as Sherlock's need for John became all consuming, coursing through his body until every inch of his being was singing.

 

_ This is happening. Sherlock is mine, and I am his.  _

 

_ Consequences be damned. _

 

______________

 

When John awoke the next morning in Sherlock's bed, he felt ever consuming guilt. 

 

Guilt for sleeping with Sherlock, guilt for kissing him, guilt for what he had started with him.

 

Sherlock was snoring soundly right next to him, curled up underneath the thick blanket, his arm draped over John's chest. In sleep, Sherlock seemed peaceful, at ease. 

 

In all the time John had known this man, he had never seen him this soft. 

 

Which is why when the next feeling of guilt punched him in the stomach, he panicked. He could feel his chest tightening and his breathing quicken to hyperventilation levels.

 

_ What have I done? Oh god, what have I done? _

 

Sherlock didn't deserve what John was giving him, no; he deserved so much more. He didn't deserve to be kept secret, to be hidden away like a whore. John loved Sherlock with everything he had, but yet, he couldn't budge an inch to give himself over completely.

 

John quickly but gently slid out from underneath Sherlock's sinewy arm, and pulled the blanket back, getting out of bed. Hastily, he pulled on his clothes and watched as Sherlock's breathing quickened, pausing when the dark haired man turned over, facing away from John, still fast asleep.

 

John knew that leaving Sherlock like this was a bit not good; hell, it was fucking horrible. But he couldn't move past who he was now and be what Sherlock wanted him to be. 

 

“I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I really am,” John whispered as he quickly gathered his things, and left the flat, cursing himself every step of the way.

  
Sherlock, on the other hand, opened his eyes from his feigned sleep as he heard the door close, a solitary tear rolling down his porcelain cheek, the ache in his chest ever present and threatening to burn him whole.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mention of attempted suicide, brief sensuality.

**_Sherlock. -JW_ **

 

**_? -JW_ **

 

**_Listen, about that… well, what happened last night between us... I think we need to sit down again. To talk, not… Anything else. -JW_ **

 

**_Sherlock? -JW_ **

 

**_My brother is currently indisposed at the moment, Dr. Watson. We found him in his flat unconscious and drugged up. -MH_ **

 

**_Christ… -JW_ **

 

**_Oh god, what have I done... -JW_ **

 

**_Is he okay?! -JW_ **

 

**_???? -JW_ **

 

**_He's fine now, but there is something you should know, Watson. -MH_ **

 

**_What is it? -JW_ **

 

**_He didn't leave a list this time. -MH_ **

 

__________

 

“Mycroft?” Sherlock groaned from the couch, his arm aching and burning, his head spinning and his nose flaming. He had taken less than he had planned, it would appear, as the sight of his brother and his men searching his flat was the first thing he saw.

 

“I told you, Sherlock, not to get involved.” Mycroft tsked, sitting down on the coffee table. “And now look where you are.”

 

Sherlock's face scrunched up, his mind still foggy. “How did you even know?”

 

“I have surveillance here in your flat, little brother. Do you think I'd be foolish enough to let you out of my sight, knowing full well that you've been in contact with John Watson?” Mycroft scowled, shifting his legs. “It would seem my concern was well placed, considering in the week and a half you've been back in Baker Street, you haven't been able to tell you were being watched.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, turning away from his brother. “And I suppose John has been informed about my… indiscretion?”

 

Mycroft smirked. “Of course. He texted you only twenty minutes ago.” He stood up and walked towards the window, pulling the curtain back slightly. “I'd estimate he'll be here within ten.”

 

Sherlock curled up into a ball, knowing that facing John would be the worst thing he'd ever have to do, yet again.

 

Ten minutes later, a breathless John Watson stepped through the door, beelining straight toward the couch where Sherlock was resting, his eyes closed on purpose.

 

“Sherlock.” John said firmly, taking the man's hand in his. “Why?”

 

Sherlock didn't answer, but let his hand slip out of John's grip. He turned away from John, his face cold and smooth like a statue.

 

John knew that he was the cause of Sherlock using again, and the guilt ate at him even more. Sherlock refused to acknowledge him, either out of shame or because he didn't know what to say, but John could feel the forced indifference that Sherlock regarded him with.

 

Mycroft, on the other hand, was fuming. “John Watson, step out into the hall with me.”

 

John’s shoulders slumped; he knew this was coming the moment Mycroft had responded from Sherlock's phone.

 

John leaned closer to Sherlock, his lips just grazing the pale shell of Sherlock's ear. “I'll be right back, I promise.” 

 

Sherlock didn't respond, he only remained still. John got up and followed Mycroft past the agents rifling through Sherlock's belongings, and out the door of his flat. 

 

Mycroft closed the door and with a movement so quick that John couldn't defend himself, slammed the shorter man into the wall, his shoulder colliding painfully.

 

“Doctor Watson, do you remember what I told you about my brother the first time we met?” Mycroft spoke, his voice low and angry, pushing the top of his umbrella into John's shoulder.

 

John winced at the increasing pressure to his collarbone and shoulder blade and gasped out, his heart beating fast. He had never seen the elder Holmes so angry before, and it filled him with terror. “V-vaguely.”

 

“I distinctly remember telling you that Sherlock is my concern, which, by extension, anything you do to set him off down a path of darkness is my  _ concern _ as well,” Mycroft threatened, pushing the umbrella deeper into John's shoulder, watching as John struggled to free himself from Mycroft’s powerful hold. “Do not make me upset, John. Whatever you have done,  _ undo it now.” _

 

Mycroft let go of John, and straightened the arms of his bespoke suit, sniffing.

 

“I expect results within three days.  _ Don't disappoint me.” _

 

And with that, Mycroft opened the door and beckoned to his men, who followed him out of the flat and downstairs to the street below.

 

John waited, catching his breath, a full ache already starting in his shoulder. He collected himself and walked back into the flat, where Sherlock stood by the window.

 

“Did he threaten you?” Sherlock's normally loud, domineering voice had been reduced to a scratchy, mild tone. He looked weak as he turned to face John, who only nodded.

 

“I didn't mean to alarm you, John. No one was supposed to know.” Sherlock stumbled back to the couch, resuming the fetal position he had taken when John had initially walked in. “Much less my brother.”

 

John didn't know what to say, because by omission, Sherlock had admitted to trying to kill himself. 

 

And that hurt John even more.

 

“I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't know how many times I can say it before it becomes meaningless.” John knelt by Sherlock's side, his hand caressing a bony shoulder.

 

“Apologies are meaningless, because they give the impression you will always be forgiven for making the same mistake over and over again by saying a few pretty words.” Sherlock stated, his voice gaining weight to it.

 

He shifted so that he was facing John again, and John felt his heart shift in his chest, aching at how broken Sherlock looked.

 

It clicked in his mind why Sherlock had responded the way he did, and John's previous guilt had nothing on what he felt now.

 

“I-I was the first, wasn't I?” John swallowed, hoping the knot in his throat would dislodge, but to no avail. “You thought I just wanted you for a quick fuck.”

 

Sherlock smiled sadly, his eyes downcast and dull. “You've always been the first, John Watson. There's never been anyone else. And my marvelous brain didn't know how to process your departure this morning, coupled with your whispered apology.” Sherlock sighed, rubbing the crook of his elbow and wincing. “So naturally, I responded the only way I know how to perceived trauma and rejection.”

 

John felt tears in his eyes, and he choked back a sob. “Oh Jesus, Sherlock…. I'm so sorry. I'm so so….” 

 

John couldn't finish his sentence, instead opting for crying into his sleeve. All Sherlock could do was watch as the man in front of him began to unfold, every insecurity and falsehood formed in the past three years falling away.

 

And Sherlock couldn't believe his eyes as the man he met a week and a half ago slowly transformed back into the man he once knew; the one he solved crimes with, the one he fell in love with, the one he was proud to call his.

 

John Watson had returned to him, and Sherlock could feel himself begin to cry as well, cupping the back of John's neck like he did the first night.

 

“John?”

 

John sniffed, looking into Sherlock's eyes.

 

Sherlock kissed John, soft and tentatively, much unlike the kisses they had shared before. John kissed him back, just as soft, twining his fingers in the base of Sherlock's ebony curls, gently massaging the skin there. 

 

Sherlock moaned softly, his hands creeping up underneath John's arms, as if to tug him gently on top of him. John complied, pushing himself off the ground and crawling on top of Sherlock, resuming his kisses down the long, pale column of Sherlock's throat.

 

Sherlock shivered underneath John's touch, and ground himself against John, aching to be touched everywhere. John's hands pushed up Sherlock's shirt, caressing and touching the smooth skin there; Sherlock shuddered at John's calloused fingers touching the sensitive skin of his navel.

 

“Is… is it going to be different this time?” Sherlock panted, his hips thrusting up into John's hands as John slipped them underneath Sherlock's dark blue pyjama pants.

 

“Yes, love. It's going to be different.” John whispered.

  
And indeed it was.


End file.
